Strange Currencies
by kerianne
Summary: Vic watches. QuestionHuntress, set before their first meeting in canon.


**Title:** Strange Currencies**  
Author:** Kerianne  
**Pairing:** Question/Huntress  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own any of these characters or the media in which they appear.  
**Notes:** Set pre-"Double Date"; no spoilers. Title and quote come from the REM song. I've been in a mood to write about unrequited love-- go figure.

_  
/I don't know what you mean to me  
But I wanna turn you on, turn you up, figure you out  
I wanna take you on.../_

He couldn't quite remember when he'd started watching her, or why.

Of course, he kept tabs on everyone, but usually it was a swift, sterile affair—sweep the database for any suspicious details, briefly scan the surveillance camera tapes, cross-reference the contents of their trash against items commonly held by Illuminati spies, and move on. In most of his colleagues, he had only a detached, analytical interest; they avoided him, and he certainly didn't trust them.

She had been no different. His room faced hers, but she had never acknowledged any awareness of his existence, even on the rare occasions when they passed in the hallway. He didn't take it personally; going unnoticed meant he was doing something right, and in any case, she didn't seem the type to socialize much.

Perhaps that was what drew him to her—like him, she was an outsider in this world of colorful, larger-than-life heroes, unable or unwilling to be dazzled by the spectacle of it all. He'd heard stories about her—her tragic past, her fierce dedication to justice, the pitiless and almost cruel way she dealt with criminals. She seemed an odd fit for the League, hardly a team player. Maybe that had set off alarm bells of suspicion in his mind—why would a woman like her, with her passion for street-level crimefighting on her home turf and apparent lack of desire for glory, join a flashy international superhero team?

It must have been something like that, something logical, concern for security or intellectual curiosity. If he were a less disciplined man, he might have been taken in by the graceful, deadly rhythms of her body as she fought, light shifting on strands of black hair, sharp and knowing confidence flashing in dark eyes—but analytical interest did not, of course, entertain such superficial matters, and the Question had very little use for emotional entanglements.

Whatever the reason, he'd taken special notice of Helena Bertinelli. She was a mystery, and he'd approached her as he approached any mystery that commanded his attention, by collecting all the pieces, fitting them together, finding the connections.

She always ordered turkey sandwiches in the cafeteria, except on Wednesdays, when she got salad. She favored her right side when sparring, and was susceptible to uppercuts. The only decoration in her room at the Watchtower was a faded, framed picture of her parents. She used apple-scented Herbal Essences shampoo, apparently unaware of its mood-altering qualities, and had a fondness for singing classic rock in the shower.

Once in a while, it occurred to him that perhaps he was collecting more information about her than was entirely necessary to ensure League safety, or even to satisfy his curiosity about her as a crimefighter.

She corrected papers on Thursday nights, and used a purple pen. She kept exactly three extra rounds of bolts in her utility belt at all times, and used at least two of them on an average patrol. Sometimes she started writing letters to someone named Dick, but she crumpled them and threw them out before finishing a full paragraph.

The only problem was that he wasn't sure he could stop, even if he wanted to.

Her eyes were brown. She wore a size seven-and-a-half shoe. She respected Superman, resented Batman, and was secretly a little envious of Wonder Woman. She donated to children's charities as often as a teacher's modest salary would allow, and the last time someone had endangered one of her students she'd gone out as the Huntress the very next night and broken his arm in three places.

Meaningless data, of course. She was everything she claimed to be—former Mafia princess, mild-mannered schoolteacher, merciless angel of vengeance. If Vic Sage ever trusted anyone, he would have trusted her; she didn't even seem capable of deception and subterfuge, of being anyone but exactly who she was. He suspected that the design of her costume, though revealing—_smooth skin offset by bars of vivid purple and black_—had little to do with titillation. She simply presented herself, no apologies, no ambiguities. The mask was her one concession to the secretive world of superheroics, the lie of dual identities and separate lives.

She tormented him. She didn't _fit_, didn't make sense, couldn't be categorized. He didn't know what he was trying to prove anymore, what he was looking for, why he couldn't close his eyes anymore without seeing her face. He collected all the details, examined them, took them apart, arranged them like newspaper clippings on a wall—but how could he find the answer when he wasn't even sure of the question?

He dreamed, once, that they were trapped together in a small dark room, and she was warm and her hair was impossibly soft against his face and no matter where he turned or shifted he could feel her. No escape. When he touched her, his hands trembled, and she laughed. It took a long time for his heart to stop pounding when he awoke.

Why her? Why now? What did it mean? There was always something to question, another mystery to explore. And the only question he couldn't bring himself to ask was the most important question of all.

What was he going to do about it?

**the end**


End file.
